


While I Sleep

by InvincibleEnigma



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Dreams, Gen, Imagery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-03-20 04:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3637071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InvincibleEnigma/pseuds/InvincibleEnigma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the search for Shaw continues, Root dreams encounters with her. Soul connection, Machine manipulation or subconscious processing, it isn’t clear. But dreams offer a chance of seeing Shaw alive, post 4x12.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Hey.” Shaw brushed a strand of hair back across her forehead. “Been awhile,” she said casually, as if her continued existence wasn’t an issue of contention.

“Sameen.” Root’s jaw didn’t drop—things always seemed natural in dreams—but she did let surprise enter her voice. “You’re alive?”

“Maybe,” came the noncommittal reply, “maybe not.”

“Don’t say that,” Root insisted. “You’re alive, I know it. And I’m coming for you.”

“Desperate doesn’t suit you,” Shaw reprimanded her, giving nothing away.

“It’s my dream,” Root said, slightly annoyed. “I can be however I like.”

“So how do you want this to be, Root?”

Root paused, taking in their surroundings: It was some kind of indoor gym or martial arts training facility. There were thin blue mats strewn across the floor, the kind people would grapple each other on top of, and she could envision Shaw practicing in a place like this during her off-hours.

“Seems more your scene than mine, Shaw.”

“Interesting how the mind works,” Shaw said reflectively. “You put me somewhere I’d fit right in. Do you miss me that much?”

Root swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “What if I do?”

Shaw’s gaze was piercing. “You think it was cruel. Doing what I did after…y’know.” She twirled her fingers in the air.

“I—I don’t,” Root said, stubbornly refusing to let the tears fall. “I just wish there had been another way.”

“There wasn’t,” her companion said with conviction. “If you don’t believe The Machine, look through your memories. You’ll see.”

“I wouldn’t have wanted it to be anyone else,” Root clarified. “That’s not what this is about.” She swallowed thickly. “But a part of me wonders…why didn’t you just shoot the damn button?”

“Typical nerd,” Shaw said, but feigned annoyance couldn’t disguise the affection Root heard in her voice. “Someone had to hold them off.”

“We could have lain on the floor while the doors closed,” Root persisted, deciding to use dream liberty to its full capacity. “No one had to stay behind.” _Least of all you._

Shaw actually had the gall to bite back a derisive chuckle. “You realize,” she said with some condescension, “that the blonde agent at least would have found her mark?”

Marks for realism, Root thought, biting her lip. “You can’t be certain.”

“The Machine would have told you if it had been possible. You know that.”

“I don’t, Shaw,” she whispered, turning away as if to admire the walls. “I’m not sure if I trust Her completely anymore.”

A light breeze wafted in through the open doors, ruffling Root’s hair like an invisible hand. “You wanted it to be you,” Shaw called astutely from behind her, her words cutting the space, both physical and emotional, between them sharply. “Dying is easy,” she continued, not sparing Root time to collect her thoughts. “Living isn’t.”

Root clenched her fists but didn’t say anything.

“You were prepared, during the election. Think I didn’t see through your Eeyore routine?”

Any other day, Root would have deflected the observation with something witty, but grief and rage bubbled within her, yearning to be set free. She turned and grabbed the collar of Shaw’s jacket. “So it’s not okay for me to die,” she yelled in her face. “But it’s okay for you?” Everything that wasn’t right with the world came rushing out of her in that instant.

“You’re angry.” Shaw observed coolly, making no attempt to dislodge the hold on her. “Go on, hit me.”

“This.” Root tightened her hold, unsure if she was trying to force her point home or keep Shaw with her. “Isn’t. Funny.”

“Will you kill?” Shaw asked nonchalantly, as if she were taking Root’s drink order on a hot summer day. “For me? Because of me?”

“I…” Root’s grip slackened as tears began flowing. “There are times—I don’t know.”

A knowing look flashed across Shaw’s face, and this time she removed Root’s hands effortlessly.

“Remember who you are,” she said, reaching out to brush Root’s hair away from her face in a gesture that was unlike her.

“That’s just it,” Root admitted, the sculpture of her emotional landscape still a work in progress. “I’m not sure.”

“When your friend died,” Shaw said matter-of-factly, “you did everything to avenge her, including killing.” She smoothed her jacket, appearing not to notice the pained expression on Root’s face. “Then you met The Machine and slowly your methodology changed. But after what happened, it would be easy to go back to your old ways.”

“I almost did,” Root said hesitantly. “Harold stopped me.”

“And you let him?” Shaw raised her eyebrows in mock surprise.

“It was Control.” Both women shared a brief look that spoke volumes. “But he won’t always be around when I…gather information.”

“Trust yourself.”

“You wouldn’t say these things in real life,” Root pointed out, amused and reproachful at the same time.

“Didn’t your time as a fake therapist teach you anything?” Shaw countered, sounding more like her usual self. “Dreams are a projection: things you wish for, things you fear. Everything you want me to say; everything you can imagine me saying…” A mischievous smirk crossed her face.

“Isn’t that convenient.” Root took the opportunity to roll her eyes. It felt good. “Anything else you’d like to share with me?”

“It’s not over ’til you see my body.” There was no sympathy in Shaw’s eyes, just hard logic.

Root pretended she didn’t feel as though she’d been punched in the gut. “Straight to the point.”

Shaw grinned like a cat about to pounce on an unsuspecting dog. “Don’t like to waste time.”

“Do you know what your name means?” she added after a brief pause, surprising Root with the question.

“Yeah, it’s th—”

“Not Root. Your first name.” Shaw’s eyes found hers and stayed there until a whirl of color changed them into the windshield of a car. Root ran a hand across her face and found her cheeks wet with tears.

“Some dream you were having,” Reese said pleasantly from the driver’s seat. “Want to take over?”

Root turned her face toward the passenger window and dried her eyes. “Yeah, I think I’m done sleeping.”


	2. Chapter 2

Root breathed in the dusty air of the desert from atop a hill. It was peaceful at this altitude, away from the hustle and bustle of the military camp below. Sometimes the most beautiful landscapes were also grounds for the most conflict, she thought.

“Missin’ all the fun up here,” a voice called from behind.

Root turned to confirm the identity of the speaker. “Didn’t think I’d see you again, Shaw. Not after today.”

“Come on, you didn’t think it would be that easy.” Shaw sat down nimbly beside her.

“We were this close,” Root answered truthfully, stretching her fingers together in a visual representation.

Shaw opened a can of soda and began guzzling it, as if in deliberate disrespect of the desert. “At least now you know I’m alive, right?”

“It’s not enough,” Root replied, thinking how they had been minutes too late. How the outcome could have been different if she had pushed harder. But then maybe the woman in their custody would have died. She hated that that seemed to matter. All this sentiment was making her ineffective.

“Back when I was in the Marines, leaving people behind was part of the job sometimes,” Shaw said, leveling with Root. “The mission came first.”

“She taught me to value life.” Root shook her head. “So why is the one life I—why are you beyond my reach?”

Shaw finished the soda and burped loudly. “Don’t always get what you want.” She peeled back a chocolate bar wrapper and began eating.

“That’s easy when you don’t have things to care about,” Root said ruefully. “I don’t think I can go back to that anymore.”

“Caring doesn’t make you special,” Shaw said. “Feelings are overrated.”

“Not exactly the answer I was hoping for.”

“Stuff happens.” Shaw finished her candy bar and threw the wrapper over the edge of the cliff. She stood up and nodded her head toward the camp. “War isn’t pretty. Mines. Starvation. Sacrifice.”

Root stood to join her. “I know, but—”

“You didn’t think any of that could happen to you,” Shaw interjected. “Until now.”

“Well I’ve never fought in a war before,” Root said, her tone slightly defensive. “I’m not…”

“Prepared?” Shaw continued, probing mercilessly. “Trained?”

Root stuffed her hands in her pockets and continued to stare at the dunes in the distance.

“Just because you’re in a city using small guns…that doesn’t change what it is,” Shaw said, turning to face her. “You’re afraid that you’re soft. That it will cost me my life, if it hasn’t already.”

“I could have been there today,” Root said bitterly. “If I’d driven faster, gotten the information sooner—”

“Someone might have died,” Shaw interrupted, her eyes ferrous in their intensity, piercing Root, but not judging her. “You don’t have to be flawless,” she went on more kindly, seeming to realize these were the very things that kept Root awake at night.

“I just want to find you. Nothing else matters.”

“Cute.” Shaw shook her head. “But foolish.”

Root grabbed her by the shoulders then. “What do you mean?”

“If you had made it in time,” Shaw said, cold fire to her blazing heat. “You and Reese would probably be dead.”

“That’s a risk I was willing to take.”

“And leave Samaritan to rule the world?” Shaw inquired disdainfully. “I don’t need to tell you what that would be like.”

“Maybe I would have succeeded,” Root said stubbornly.

“It’s better this way,” Shaw told her. “Go home, Root.” She waved a careless hand at the endless sand marred by explosions below. “You don’t belong here.”

“I am _not_ letting you go, Shaw.” Root grabbed her arm and pulled then, the motion feeling all too familiar.

Shaw shook her off easily. “Continue on this path and you might as well put a bullet in your brain now.”

“I don’t care,” Root said flatly.

“You have no idea where I am,” Shaw stated. “Any attempt to find out will blow your cover and John’s.”

“You can’t ask me to give up.”

“Make my actions count for something,” Shaw said. “Take Samaritan down. Then,” she held up a hand to forestall whatever Root was about to say. “Come for me when it’s safe.”

Root couldn’t argue with the logic of that, but she wanted to. Desperately. “Samantha,” Shaw continued, knocking Root out of her reverie with syllables that were unfamiliar to them both. “Means ‘listener of God’.”

Root sighed. “What does it matter? It’s not like I use that name anyway.”

Undeterred, Shaw went on like a homing missile locked on its target, “You were made for this, Root. Someday you’ll see that.”

Root kicked at a lump of sand at her feet. “Right now nothing feels right. Taking instructions from Her won’t fix it.”

“Win the war and you win the battle,” Shaw said, unusually serious. “You have a job to do.”

“Are you saying you want me back in the city?” Root asked.

But Shaw had already turned and walked down the hill, disappearing as she reached the bottom. Root lay down where she was and stretched her limbs on a whim, unintentionally forming a sand angel in the middle of nowhere, under the blazing sun.

When she opened her eyes, she was lying spreadeagled on some rumpled mattress in a dingy motel, with a naked pull chain light bulb as the only illumination.


	3. Chapter 3

Root stepped off an old subway car oddly reminiscent of the one in their hideout, and onto a long platform with a single bench in the middle. A few minutes later, Shaw got off a pristine white train speeding in the opposite direction.

“Not like you to be late, Shaw,” she called to the approaching woman, grabbing her chronometer and comparing it to the station clock hanging from the ceiling. “Relativistic time effects getting you down?” She nodded in the direction of Shaw’s train, which was now a blur of motion.

“Funny,” Shaw said, yanking her arm out of Root’s grasp. “Maybe if you don’t put me on a pedestal, you won’t have to ride that thing.” She inclined her head toward the decrepit car Root had alighted from, and both of them watched its slow progress pulling out of the station, replete with bumps and screeches.

Root gave her a wry smile and made her way over to the far wall, where she began reading departure and arrival times for the station. “I haven’t had any leads to go on in ages, so,” she paused for a beat, turning to face her companion, “allow me to picture you in comfort?”

“Haven’t the numbers been keeping you busy?” Shaw asked, turning the conversation to more practical matters.

“Not really,” Root replied honestly. “I spend most of my time trying to find you.”

Shaw rolled her eyes. “As long as you aren’t letting innocent people die.”

“I multitask, Shaw,” Root said with a playfulness she didn’t feel. “Took the liberty of going through your stuff. I…hope you don’t mind?”

Shaw snorted in disagreement, but nevertheless asked, “Find anything useful?”

Root scrunched her features in deliberate confusion. “Only something that puzzled me.”

“Let me guess,” Shaw said, sitting down at the bench. “Something in the bag of clothes I asked you to get while I was stuck underground.”

Root nodded, joining her at the bench. “I haven’t seen it before.” She narrowed her eyes in concentration. “But…somehow it was oddly familiar.”

Shaw kept her expression neutral, offering Root nothing to go on. “You want to know why I kept it.”

Root shifted in her seat, wondering if there was any point asking Shaw these questions. “I didn’t figure you for the sentimental type, Sameen. And yet…”

“I asked for something that doesn’t belong to me, at a time when things were falling apart.”

“Well,” Root said, clearing her throat slightly, “they still are. But if you’d like to share?”

“That medal’s important to me,” Shaw said earnestly, surprising Root when she didn’t try and change the subject or threaten her well-being.

“Okay. Want to tell me mo—” Root was rudely interrupted by a loud _clang_ as the station clock chimed the hour.

“Listen to me, Root,” Shaw said urgently, turning to regard her. “If we meet, I want you to show it to me.”

Root furrowed her brow. “I don’t think I understand.”

“Bring it with you,” Shaw insisted, leaning forward slightly. “Force me to look at it. Heck even wear it, I don’t care.”

Root was about to answer when the posh white train whistled into the station at exactly the same time another dull gray subway car trundled in. She frowned as doors to both opened simultaneously. “It’s odd they arrive at the same time when their velocities are so different.”

Shaw surveyed her with an odd expression, as if deciding whether she was worthy of an answer. “Just because they come from different places, travel at different speeds. Doesn’t mean they won’t meet in the middle.”

Root took a deep breath, hardly daring to ask her next question. “Are you saying…I’ll see you again?”

“You have to be prepared,” Shaw responded sharply, cutting off her train of thought.

Root wrung her hands in her lap, unspoken tension coiling within. “For what?” she asked, noticing the platform was still empty save for the two of them.

“You got close enough to see a bandage around my head.” Shaw pointed at her hairline. “Come on Root, you’re not stupid. Something occurred to you, even if you won’t admit it.”

Root got to her feet abruptly and began pacing the platform in front of the bench.

“Fine,” Shaw said decisively. “I’ll say it.” An unpleasant silence sat between them as she stared at Root for a brief moment. “I may not remember.”

“I really don’t want to talk about this.” Root’s voice wavered even as the sound of her footsteps punctuated the air.

“But you’ve thought about it,” Shaw pressed. “Chances of surviving a head shot—if that’s what happened; chances of retaining memory and motor function if the bullet misses the centerline, and exits cleanly—that is the best case scenario, by the way.”

“Would I be the same if you found me?”

Root stopped pacing then and realized her hands were shaking. The ground was shaking too, or perhaps that was the rumble of another approaching train. “None of that matters until I locate you,” she said adamantly, as much to lay these possibilities to rest as to be convincing.

“Samaritan wouldn’t keep me alive just ’cause,” Shaw said reasonably. “Think what that means.”

“I said it before, Shaw,” Root asserted, injecting steel into her tone. “I am going to get you back.”

Shaw stared at her for a long moment. “Just keep your wits about you,” she advised. “You and Finch are valuable to Decima alive. Would they set a trap or try to turn me?”

“You can’t be turned,” Root said confidently, a trace of mischievousness returning to her demeanor. “But I’ll bring your medal, just in case.”

“Good.” Shaw stood up and went over to her. “If you’re wondering where I got it, ask around. The boys might remember.”

Root nodded her acknowledgement. “It’s good to see you, Sameen,” she said sincerely, choosing honesty in the face of uncertainty. “Even if you say the most…unusual things sometimes.”

Shaw barked a laugh. “Someone has to keep it real for you.” She walked to the middle of the platform where the white train would stop. “Gotta go.”

Root followed her all the way until the yellow safety line. “Will I see you again?”

“Don’t beat yourself up so much,” Shaw said, skirting the question. “And clean that vehicle of yours”—they waited a few moments until Root’s mode of transport had entered the station—“so it doesn’t look like it’s been through the garbage.”

Root chuckled briefly in spite of herself. “I can take the next one.”

Shaw shrugged and stepped aboard her train, which had just pulled in. “Semper fidelis,” she said softly as the doors slid shut, allowing the wind to carry her words to Root.

A draft from the open window blew past the curtains and tickled Root’s face as the kettle blew.


	4. Chapter 4

She walked through a sterile corridor with white tiles, looking for a doctor. Although there was no real reason for her to be here, Root knew there was a chance of finding what she sought, if only by association.

So she marched forward confidently, throwing open the swinging doors to a closed ward that was probably off-limits, and came face-to-face with one Sameen Shaw.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Shaw said, putting down her clipboard and scowling. She grabbed Root’s arm and turned her around, blocking whichever patients might have been under treatment from view.

“Love the white coat,” Root gushed, tugging at Shaw’s sleeve, even as she was dragged out the door. “Can I call you Dr. Shaw?”

“Most sane people avoid hospitals if they can help it,” Shaw said in response. “What are you doing here, Root?”

“Can’t I bother you at work whenever I feel like it?” Root asked mischievously.

“No,” Shaw said firmly, “you can’t.”

Rout pouted. “What if I needed help with something…medical?”

“You don’t,” Shaw said, not even bothering to give her a once-over. The floor tiles, which had previously been white, changed their pattern as she spoke, giving way to alternating black and white squares.

“Or, if you’d rather institutionalize me,” Root said, looking down at the floor. “I’m game for that too.”

Shaw shook her head. “Any institution with you in it wouldn’t last long.”

“Why, Sameen,” Root drawled fondly, “I didn’t know you thought that highly of me.”

“I don’t.” Shaw pushed open one of the heavy doors leading to an outdoor area, and jerked her head in the direction of the greenery. “Go.”

Root didn’t need to be told twice. “This is really nice,” she said, smiling at Shaw from behind a plant. “You, opening the door for me.”

“Wouldn’t want you getting lost and terrorizing the patients,” Shaw said bluntly, reaching to remove her name tag. But Root got there first.

“Let me keep this,” she said, suddenly serious, her eyes beseeching Shaw. “Please?”

Shaw brushed her hands off, but nevertheless placed the name tag within reach on a nearby ledge.

“That thing has so many germs on it,” she warned Root, shaking her head.

“Fine by me.” Root grabbed it and began tracing one of the letters with her finger.

“You can’t stay—you know that right?” Shaw said tightly, and Root imagined herself as one of her patients, receiving bad news.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” she added, when Root didn’t answer. “Searching for any excuse not to leave.”

“But Root…this isn’t real.”

As she spoke, a transformation began in the garden: Plants shriveled and died, turning brown and falling to the floor; the very ground beneath them shook and broke into pieces, and everything seemed to hang in suspense for a brief moment lasting an eternity, before Root found herself free falling; the structures around her disintegrated, one by one, until there was only darkness, black as the farthest regions of space.

Then the world rearranged itself as a series of bright, perpendicular lines fell from above, phasing through Root and lodging themselves in a horizontal plane below, dividing it into a two-dimensional grid much like that found on a nautical chart, but starker; Root landed gently on this new surface, which stretched infinitely in every direction, Shaw’s name tag clutched tightly in hand. A few moments later Shaw herself appeared, bearing two identical boxes.

“I know what you’re going to ask,” Root said, echoing Shaw’s earlier words. “But I won’t choose.”

“You recognize the playing field,” Shaw said, holding the boxes out. “So you know we don’t have much time.”

“Sure,” Root acknowledged. “Space-time projected onto dimensions we understand. Used to show curvature due to gravity.”

At this, several circular orbs landed in the distance, creating ripples and then permanent indentations in the fabric—as if it were floating carpet—before settling into their new spots. The white lines nearest these masses, formerly straight, began curving around the orbs, together forming small sinkholes that would alter the trajectory of any passing object, including people.

“What happens,” Shaw asked, “when you want something so much you become consumed by it?”

Root declined to answer, but she noticed a deepening sinkhole out of the corner of her eye; what was unusual was there seemed to be no contributing mass. But as the vortex sunk ever deeper—looking like some black whirlpool in an ocean of chaos—small orbs were uprooted and attracted, inevitably falling into its pull.

“It destroys you,” Shaw answered for her, nodding once more to the boxes in her hands, as if telling Root what to do.

“We’re still here,” Root reminded her. “Besides,” she added, keeping a firm grip on the name tag, “going down a black hole may not be a one-way trip after all. Information stored on the surface could be used to exactly recreate—”

“If I wanted to speak geek,” Shaw interrupted, her eyes flashing dangerously.

“I’m just saying, Shaw,” Root pointed out. “Things may not be what they appear.”

“Look at what’s in your hand,” Shaw suggested, changing the topic.

Root opened her fist carefully, hoping they were still immune to the environment, and read the letters engraved in metal. “What did you d—” she started.

“I didn’t do anything,” Shaw cut in, her hair looking windswept in the gravitational pull.

The name tag now read ‘Groves’ in bold, capital letters; Root dropped it to the ever-evolving landscape beneath them in disgust.

“I wanted to hold on to you,” she said acerbically, feeling betrayed, unsure if her words were meant to burn Shaw or herself. “I’ve _never_ stopped believing.”

“Nobody can hold on to me,” Shaw said, as if it were obvious. “And belief sucks when you can’t confirm it.”

“Now open these damn things already,” she ordered, not giving Root a chance to refuse.

Root closed her eyes and acquiesced, inserting a trembling hand into the box on her left. Her fingers closed around a solid object, which she pulled out slowly. When she opened her eyes, she found herself looking at the kind of small wooden letter children would use to spell their name on a door. Only it was a question mark.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Shaw said, smirking. “No dead cats or anything, right?”

“What’s this supposed to mean?” Root asked, not appreciating the reminder.

“You,” Shaw said, in no uncertain terms, “aren’t a god, Root. There are things you can’t know.”

“Why?” Root demanded. _I’d do anything._

“Zealotry without faith,” Shaw cautioned, as if she had read her mind, “is dangerous.”

“Stop asking.” _I could never lie to you._

“No.” Being and nothingness collided as planets were swallowed whole.

“You’ll drive yourself mad, Root.” Shaw grabbed her arm roughly and placed her hand on the remaining box.

Root struggled to retain her footing as her fingers searched for an opening. Whole galaxies were now being swallowed in the distance, and if they stayed here, it was only a matter of time before they too would be getting up close and personal with a singularity. Root ripped open the cover, and there was a sudden _whoosh_ as something red and round rushed at her, hitting her in the face and sending her flying.

“Wake up.” She heard Shaw’s voice call as blood spurted from her nose; lines of starlight seemed to shoot through space as she fell through the air. “That’s all I can do for you.”

Root blinked stardust—no, gravel—from her eyes as her nose bled onto the pavement below. She remembered cracking it there before losing consciousness. Underneath her, there was a growing pool of liquid she soon realized was blood.


	5. Chapter 5

It was quiet, so still the chaos and questions in her mind seemed to magnify before receding briefly into dark recesses, where they would stay as obedient pets, as long as they were sated. She was standing on a long pier that stretched as far as the eye could see in either direction, the water below so smooth its entire surface seemed to shimmer as one, only Root was pretty sure anything that perfect…wasn’t real.

She turned, wanting to see if there was any difference—

“You made it,” someone said from behind, their approach so stealthy Root hadn’t even heard the planks creak.

“I should be used to this by now,” she said, turning to face the person. “Shaw.”

“You’re distracted,” Shaw said, taking no pleasure in the fact. “Anybody could sneak up.”

“I’ve got a lot on my mind,” Root revealed. “But that doesn’t matter. I should…thank you.”

“Save it,” Shaw said sharply. “We have more important things to talk about.”

“You left Harold and the gang.” She walked around to face Root. “It didn’t go so well.”

“I couldn’t stay,” Root said, wondering for the first time if this was how Reese had felt a year ago, adrift in a sea of changing tide, everything similar but inexorably different. “Wanting to—do something, but…not knowing what.” _Losing a friend changes everything._

“It’s easier like this.”

“No backup means you gotta be careful,” Shaw commented. “Can’t run after leads, like some—” She circled a finger next to her temple, and Root got the point.

“You’re not here to check on my mental state.”

“No,” Shaw confirmed, looking out on the water. “I’m here to ask what you intend to do next.”

“I don’t know…more of the same, probably.”

“So,” Shaw said, checking things off on her fingers casually, as if she were completing items on a grocery list. “Careless invasion, random destruction, some explosion, occasional torture, no regard for personal safety…have I missed anything?”

A small giggle found its way past Root’s lips. “Not really, Sameen.”

“At least you haven’t killed anyone.” Shaw huffed, her features accentuating the point. “Yet.”

“I’m not a monster,” Root said tentatively, wondering if she was seeking some kind of reassurance.

“Who are you, Root?”

“The Machine’s Analogue Interface, sworn to follow any instruction without question or reward? Finch’s comrade, bound to protect the numbers no matter what? Root, hacker and killer for hire, feeding on the depravity of the human race for personal gain? Or Samantha Groves, tearing the world apart because a friend died?”

Root was stunned speechless, unable to form a coherent thought, let alone an answer.

“I thought so,” Shaw said assuredly. “You don’t know.”

The water, previously uniform, began developing circular depressions on its surface. First a few, then more. Near the surface, the change was gradual, but further down it was steep, giving rise to a tapered geometry something like a funnel, but fluid. Some circular openings were moored next to the pier, while others formed groups far out at sea on the other side of the walkway.

“You were one thing,” Shaw continued, “then everything.”

The pits deepened.

“Now you don’t know what to be—and you can’t go back.”

Labels appeared on the ground, adjacent to every aperture by the pier, and inscribed with a few letters and a uniquely identifying number. Beside some, there was a single circle, but others had several associated with them, as if there were various options.

“I’ve always been able,” Root said, finding her voice at last, “to keep track of the possibilities. But now…”

“You’re part of the game,” Shaw said sagely. “No longer safe behind your computer. This is the real thing, Root.”

They walked farther out to sea, and Root noticed the numbers got bigger in this direction.

“I wouldn’t waste time with you,” Shaw went on, putting the icing on the cake, “if all you could do was type.”

Root couldn’t resist smiling at this. “So you’re asking me to choose…is that it?”

“Something like that,” Shaw said cryptically. “When this ends,” she pointed at herself, “dead or alive, you”—she pointed at Root—“will know who you are.”

They stopped at a circle with a particularly steep downward gradient, and Root could see several others in line with its marker.

She swallowed. “I didn’t know my identity was so important,” she said, going for brazen, but coming up insecure.

The number at her feet read ‘87’, and Root was tempted to step off the pier just to see what was inside these holes, so close was the water to her feet. But she resisted the allure.

“Who you are decides what you do,” Shaw offered finally, and for some reason Root didn’t feel chagrined. “You were The Machine’s right-hand woman, but without Her…”

“—I feel like a pawn,” Root finished the thought, and it was as if a dam had broken. “Lost in someone else’s game, unsure of what I’m doing or where I’m headed.”

She decided to compromise then, giving in to her curiosity and looking down the well—if it would be called that: it seemed to go on forever, but at the depths there were signs of activity.

“This is a periodic pier, isn’t it,” she asked Shaw. “Theoretical construct of chemical elements seen from a quantum physics perspective. Which means the ‘water’ is a vacuum.”

Shaw titled her head slightly in lieu of an answer. “I’ll show you something,” she said, waving her hand over the opening. A small object shining with ethereal brilliance emerged on her palm, and Root was sure she had never seen it before.

“Is that—” she asked.

“Francium,” Shaw confirmed, unfazed by the danger of radioactivity. “Rare, volatile, barely exists for half an hour in its most stable form—you can imagine most people’ve never seen it.”

Root was again, dumbfounded, both by the substance and Shaw’s dalliance with it.

“What you’re trying to do,” Shaw said, deftly twirling her hand around the element like a magician in a stage performance, defying gravity in the act, “is as likely—and as safe—as this.”

Root held her breath as Shaw clenched her fist and opened it again. The metal was gone. “Doesn’t exist for long enough to form any stable compound,” she continued, looking pointedly at Root.

Root looked away. “D’you really think,” Shaw asked quietly, “The Machine wouldn’t tell you where I was, if I could be saved?”

“She hasn’t exactly been chatty,” Root said sullenly, all her frustration and fear seeping into the statement in a way she knew wouldn’t escape Shaw’s notice.

“It would be easier to tell you I’m dead—” Shaw began, raising her eyebrows slightly.

“Don’t even—”

“—if it meant you saving numbers and fighting Samaritan with the others.” She let the implication percolate through Root’s consciousness.

“Me, I’d lie to get your cooperation,” Shaw continued unabashedly. Then, after a beat, “Would Finch?”

“What has that got to do with _anything_?” Root wanted to know.

But Shaw just looked at her meaningfully.

Root took a deep breath, and began walking. “Are you saying The Machine wouldn’t lie…because She can’t?” She stuck a hand in her back pocket, willfully ignoring how close this was to blasphemy. And then something struck her. “Oh—”

“Not now doesn’t mean not ever,” was all Shaw said, before she increased her pace. _Not everything is black and white._

“I wish I could be sure,” Root said, struggling to keep up with her, “of just this one thing.”

“Stop looking for the right answer,” Shaw scoffed. “Things are too crazy for that.”

“Go with whatever works.” _Whatever keeps you alive._

Root was about to reply when Shaw stopped suddenly and she had to take a step back to avoid running into her and falling into the endless void. She noticed the marking beside them said ‘10’.

“Stand over there,” Shaw instructed, and Root followed her gaze to the next number in sequence.

“Why fluorine?” she asked quizzically, stepping past Shaw and turning to face her. Pit number ‘9’ was relatively shallow, compared to the others.

Shaw looked at her smugly. “No reason,” she said, her tone deceptively light. “Fluorine’s just a highly reactive, toxic, corrosive gas. Sound familiar?”

Root smiled coyly. “I may or may not have used it,” she said innocently. To which she added, “Neon’s an inert gas, Shaw. Doesn’t exactly seem your type.”

Shaw pushed past her in one smooth motion. “Caesium fluoride,” she whispered harshly in her ear, as they drew level, the contact knocking Root precariously sideways on a structure already narrow to begin with.

“I don’t understand,” she protested, struggling to regain her balance as Shaw continued walking.

“Sure you do.” _Strongest_ stable _ionic bond._

“Wait—” Root called to Shaw’s retreating back. _Compromise._

She looked down at her feet then, finding herself alone on a shrinking walkway. There was nothing for it.

Root pointed her arms skyward and dove straight into the swirling opening that was 9F.

The fall was endless, and as the walls closed in, small objects with pointy sticks began dancing around her in a flurry of motion. She kept falling—

—and falling to the cold, hard ground of…an unfamiliar warehouse; half-eaten takeout cartons and chopsticks followed suit, jumping off the table she’d been using as a pillow and landing on her.


	6. Chapter 6

She was leaning against a bookshelf by the wall, flipping through a digital magazine with the latest trends—not that they interested her—while her attention wandered as she scanned the surroundings. There was a long table with seats for reading and a lone computer with an old-fashioned CRT monitor. If Root had looked any closer, she would have seen an educational game play across its screen, but she didn’t, her gaze focused instead on a book lying upside down on the edge of the table: it was medium-sized and had a white dust jacket.

Root put the magazine down and walked to the table, reaching to flip the book over—

The entrance door slammed open, startlingly her, and someone stumbled in, dripping blood.

“Shaw,” Root yelled, running across the room, the book completely forgotten. She grabbed the shorter woman as she fell, both of them sinking to the floor in an ungainly heap.

Root immediately placed her hands on both wounds and pressed hard, ignoring Shaw’s grunt of pain, and her own pounding heart. “Stay with me.”

“Call an ambulance,” she shouted at the checkout counter, in response to a rustle of movement.

There was blood, so much blood. _Exsanguination occurs when someone loses half their supply,_ her brain whispered traitorously. “Hurry up,” she yelled again, sparing a brief glance at the counter. What she saw made her insides run cold.

A portly librarian Root would have recognized anywhere dangled the phone receiver in one hand, and the white book from earlier in the other. “No,” she whispered, clearly seeing the Rorschach inkblot on the front cover. “Please.” _My friend needs help._

Blood was bubbling out of Shaw’s mouth, and there was nothing Root could do to stop it. She removed one hand and stroked her cheek in a way she knew the other woman would never forgive. “Sameen.” _I’m telling the truth._

She could almost feel the moment Shaw stopped breathing; it was the same moment the librarian put the phone down, with a resounding bang. _You’re a liar._

When her fingers found no life in Shaw’s carotid artery, Root stood with murder in her eyes. She and the woman locked irises, neither blinking, as she marched toward the counter. Just as Root was about to grab her, Mrs. Russell stuck the book in her face, and Root became lost in the depths of the inkblot, her pupils dilating in the darkness.

She traveled through dark corridors as blackness became her world, suffusing the few remaining openings with shadow. Time passed, as her knowledge of the external world faded, her senses winking out one by one, until there was nothing left. It was quiet not because she couldn’t hear, but because there was no sound. Or smell. Or touch.

Then Root remembered.

There was a black helmet around her head, blocking everything—they had put it there after binding her limbs. She was weightless and heavy, timeless and non-existent. Every few hours—or maybe it was minutes—they opened slits for her eyes, and allowed her to feel, as they did terrible things to her. Sometimes it was electric shocks, other times physical beatings, or incessant noise and bright lights; she was never allowed to eat, sleep or slouch. Root had a high tolerance for pain and inappropriate drugs, but continued sensory deprivation punctuated by staccato bursts of overstimulation was the perfect torture. She was unable to get her bearings or remember what she was fighting for, and more importantly, why she was here. Certainly whatever it was couldn’t be worth this. Whatever they wanted, she could surely give. Even if it meant someone else would suffer this fate. Only one person would do, they had said; if she gave up them up, she would be free—but it had to be a willing act. And they would suffer and die in her place. Root wasn’t sure if she could live with that.

Suddenly the slits for her eyes opened, and Root felt herself slowly regaining sensation and proprioception: first agonizing bright light, then a sense of the ground beneath her, and pain, in every inch of her body.

Someone undid the shackles around her legs, followed by her hands.

They yanked the black contraption off her head, and Root saw stars everywhere. She was so dizzy she wasn’t sure if the surface in front of her was the ceiling or the floor. It didn’t matter, she staggered against it anyway, and retched, putrid liquid splashing her feet.

“I am not cleaning that,” a familiar voice said from somewhere in the distance.

Root stayed against the wall, unsure how she was still standing. Finally her eyes regained some measure of focus, and the blurry shape coalesced into a solid figure. “…Shaw?” she mumbled, delighted and embarrassed, not caring how this had come to be, or that the words caused her ears to ring.

“You look terrible,” Shaw said, and Root could finally make out the metal table she was sitting on.

“How…did you?” Root asked, looking around the room. It was a mistake, and the vomit exiting her mouth reminded her so.

“I escaped,” Shaw proclaimed, and suddenly Root felt bad for not being able to do so herself.

“We need…” she wheezed, “to get…out of here.”

“ _We_ ,” Shaw said indifferently, and all of a sudden Root knew something was wrong, “don’t.”

Shaw had never been touchy-feely, but for her not to show any concern, even veiled, when Root was in this state was unthinkable.

“Sameen,” she said, as clearly as she could, hoping it was a mistake. “I need…a doctor.”

“Sit,” Shaw said airily, waving a hand at the chair beside the table. Unable to stay upright any longer, Root collapsed onto it, gasping in pain.

Shaw leaned in, her gaze predatory. “Will you tell us now?”

“What did they do to you?” Root demanded, her voice breaking as her ears betrayed her.

“Oh, they didn’t do anything,” Shaw said, insidiously. “I’m the one who’s been torturing you.”

“You see, Root.” Shaw grabbed one of her swollen fingers, causing her to scream.

“You and I…can never be.”

A loud cracking noise joined an anguished sob as the room faded away.

She was gasping in total darkness. There was nothing, but somehow she was dying. There were no walls but the space closed in; there was no gravity but somehow she was falling. This was the end.

Then infinite space collapsed to a single light source as someone opened the lid. They grabbed her roughly by the throat and pulled her free of her prison, crying and coughing. She became aware of water everywhere: on her clothes, on her face, on the ground. And she knew she was alive.

“Stupid,” the person said, their arm wrapped firmly around her neck, and Root recognized the voice, even as she shivered uncontrollably. “Sendep under those conditions.”

Root coughed and hacked water out of her lungs, shaking and sobbing. She was lying with her head on her rescuer’s lap, where they had been washed by the torrent of escaping water, and her vision was hazy.

After a huge gasp of air, she managed to speak, “If you’re going…to die again…just do it.” She coughed more. “I can’t bear…for you to hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” came the irate reply. And after a pause, reluctant words, “And I’m not going anywhere.”

“Please,” Root whispered, tears running into her mouth. “Stop…giving me hope…just to…take it away.” She knew she was making a fool of herself, but she couldn’t stop.

“You almost drowned,” the person went on, sounding displeased. “In that tank of yours.”

“I wanted…to forget it all.” Root blinked, her eyes expelling tears and chemical salt water. “Just for awhile.”

“You can’t,” the voice said, “replace Epsom salt with some random compound and expect it to work.”

“Buoyancy is one thing—but were you trying to give yourself hallucinations?”

“I couldn’t get magnesium sulphate,” Root revealed, the pressure equalizing in her ears, as she rose to a half-seated position leaning against Shaw. “Didn’t want to be overly selective.”

Shaw huffed derisively. “At that temperature and pressure,” she said, nodding to the substitute floatation chamber Root had rigged together, “forgetting was the least of your worries.”

“You good?” She made to rise but Root grabbed her arm and replaced it across her clavicle line.

“Stay,” she begged. “…Please?”

Shaw made an irritated noise, but didn’t remove her arm. “What did you see in there?” she asked finally.

_You dying. You as my enemy._ “My worst fears,” Root answered, nakedly honest. _The library._

Shaw gave the beginnings of a snort. “Funny,” she said. “People always think quiet is peaceful, but they forget about their demons.”

“That was your Room 101, Root.”

A new wave of tears threatened to fall, but Shaw squeezed a pressure point on her arm hard enough for it to hurt. “Stop,” she said. “I hate crying.”

Root gave a strangled laugh somewhere between a sigh and sob. “I hate that book,” she said traitorously, of Hanna’s favorite. “The story and the reminder.”

“So stop sending it,” Shaw advised, as if she were lecturing a disobedient five-year-old.

“I haven’t sent one since—”

“To yourself,” Shaw cut her off. “You’ve placed flowers for Algernon,” she inferred percipiently, and somehow Root knew exactly who the mouse was meant to represent. “Maybe it’s time to move on.”

“You aren’t Charlie.” _Doomed to rise and fall at the hands of revered beings._

“And I’m not her.” Shaw’s voice was low, but the words resonated; Root didn’t think she could have managed it if she had said Hanna’s name aloud. “You don’t have to save me.”

“She never made it to Oregon,” Root whispered brokenly, tears streaking once more from her eyelids. “I should have done more.” They both knew this last could have been referring to either event.

“You were twelve,” Shaw replied harshly, choosing the easier. “Not your fault the operator transposed the digits. Or that Mrs. Whatsit-librarian was an idiot.”

“I could have told the sheriff.” _Will you, make it?_

“Or,” Shaw said, that blend of exasperation and deadly suggestion Root knew so well. “You could have chased the perp and fought him off. Because that would _really_ have worked.”

Root dissolved into peals of inappropriate laughter at this, years of guilt bubbling to the surface. “Maybe you should have been a psychiatrist, Shaw.” The image of her torturing downtrodden patients was almost as attractive as surgery being performed without anesthesia. Almost.

“Please,” said Shaw. “Listen to sad people crying on a couch? No way.” Root noted the implicit exception and was immeasurably grateful for it.

“I had too much fun cutting people open.” _And killing._

“What’s your Room 101?” Root asked, using the opportunity to pick her brains.

“Don’t have one,” Shaw replied predictably. “Don’t fear if you don’t feel.”

“Even your father?” Root heard slip out of her mouth before she could stop it.

“Ask me that again,” Shaw said threateningly, roughly pushing Root off her and standing.

Root took a deep breath and stood shakily, wringing her clothes. “You know, I could wait until we’re in your head, Sameen,” she teased, aware she was flirting with danger, even here.

Shaw gave her a look that could have melted the polar ice caps, but Root wasn’t intimidated. “I’m really glad you—”

“No need,” Shaw said, cutting off her words of gratitude. “Look over there.”

Root noticed the floor had dried and where her monstrous fish tank of a floatation chamber had been, the real thing now stood, miles elegant by comparison.

“What’re you gonna do?” Shaw asked, folding her arms.

“I want to try it for real,” Root responded, opening the door. “No nightmares this time.”

“Good,” Shaw said, pride barely audible in her voice. “’Cause I hate quitters.”

Root climbed in, noticing the water temperature was now comfortable.

“It’s ridiculous _—_ ” Shaw began, but her words faded as the hatch closed.

Root shut her eyes and when she opened them again she was lying in a dirty, cracked bathtub in a moldy bathroom with a dripping shower faucet.

_—that what you fear most is not having a chance with me._

This was the last time she broke into someone’s house and fell asleep in the tub.


	7. Chapter 7

Smooth blue walls of a corridor rose high above her head, hiding the overall layout from view. The area she had passed through so far had been surreal in its convoluted twists, turns, and traps, but Root was nevertheless confident. Every puzzle had a solution, every maze, an exit.

She leaped over a pit of metal spikes, barely landing on the other side.

“Nice touch,” Shaw’s voice crackled over her earpiece, a welcome breath of fresh air. “Disabling the cameras and all, when you saved Finch.”

“Couldn’t let our favorite watchdog see all the action.” Root smiled, turning a dial of concentric number wheels in front of her until they clicked together. A door opened elsewhere. “Sure you don’t want to join me, Shaw?”

“Your maze, you find a way out.”

Root put a hand on the dark blue surface that was the floor, and lowered herself through an opening. She found the new doorway, and entered.

“She reminded me,” she said, untwisting the strap of her shoulder bag, “of who I used to be.”

“Really,” Shaw’s voice sounded incredulous, as the image of Claire rose unbidden in Root’s mind, “that scrawny kid reminds you of yourself?”

“Change a few details,” Root said, looking around and seeing a conspicuous opening in the wall, “and that could have been me.” There was a Rubik’s cube of corresponding size on the floor, so she picked it up and began working.

“I know what it’s like to want an answer, a raison d’être so much…that if I’d found Samaritan then instead of Her…”

“Root—”

“…maybe I would have made the same choice.” Rows moved into place beneath her adroit manipulation. _Twenty-six moves._

“Root,” Shaw repeated, sounding annoyed. “I met the girl. Never made the connection.”

“First time I saw you, you impersonated my contact, tased me and threatened torture with an iron.” She sounded like she was recollecting an unpleasant trip to the dentist that had ended in a conciliatory steak, and it made Root smile, briefly. “That takes skill.”

“Now all she did was run straight to the big bad wolf.”

Root’s smile broadened as memories of shared adventures rose to the surface. “You should have seen the look on Harold’s face.” His reaction had been a brief spark in her day—that naïve belief in the inherent goodness of man a temporary balm for hidden wounds.

“You went back for him.”

“I couldn’t let Harold be captured.” Columns joined rows of color under her fingers. “Guess I am ‘ _Finch’s_ comrade’.” Root smiled half-humorously at the juxtaposition of a leader—if anyone could consider Harold that, least of all himself—and a bird known for its stupidity. It didn’t gel, but then again, it wasn’t his real name.

“And Her interface.” _Hacker grown human before a computer…fancy that._

“Child’s play,” Shaw commented in her ear, and Root thought she meant the cube. “A life you’ve the power to save.”

“I didn’t realize…it wasn’t just you, I…”

_…had come to value._ “Now you know,” Shaw said sarcastically, “the real meaning of, ‘We all matter.’”

“Did you know, Shaw?” she asked, sparing a brief glance at her task. “I once compared human evolution to genetically modified apples. The fruit won.”

“Difference is,” Shaw remarked, “when I said feelings didn’t matter during my residency, I really meant it.”

“You think I didn’t?” Root looked at the ceiling to see if there were any signs of a hidden trap.

“What you wanted was for someone to match you.” It was an incisive observation, even over the distance of static.

“You look for ‘equals’ you can be yourself in front of, like, uh, an arena for your craziness, but they can’t applaud if they’re shocked when the blood starts flowing.”

Root recalled the makeup counter and words to a similar effect given in reverse. “I once said the same to you about normality, Shaw. But acting’s no fun.”

“Root 101,” Shaw continued, and Root could imagine her shaking her head. “Playfully impervious on the outside, but privately unsure how things stand.”

“All that intelligence…it’s an eternal challenge to bring order to chaos.”

_Everyone has a flaw, and I’m good at finding them._

“I love it,” Root said, not minding the insinuation of fallibility, “when you get in my head.”

Shaw made a disgruntled noise over the comm. “You have screws loose. Just so you know.”

Root was about to say something witty in return when the comm went dead.

She looked down, and made a final turn, solving the Rubik’s cube. Root admired its simple beauty, before placing it in the designated opening in the wall. All its faces turned a single color and the cube became a constituent cell in a transparent 4-dimensional analogue with the same parameters—a tesseract—which grew to full-size and spun out of its original location. Meanwhile, parts began moving somewhere below with a grinding noise, and the ground she was standing on separated from everything else and moved into an open space previously invisible, creating a floating platform. Root noted the well-ordered gear patterns inscribed by her feet were set off against free swirls at the other end, and she turned to regard the rotating hypercube.

She was mesmerized by its motion—some rotations were vaguely cube-like, while others projected maximal 3D volume—and when she turned back, the floating platform had grown minimal blades of grass and was situated in a natural environment, where wispy clouds draped low and covered much; Root felt she could almost touch them at this altitude, mechanical reminder though the base was. Suddenly something fell from the sky, and Root took a step back to avoid being hit. It was a full-length plane mirror. She peered into its depths, expecting to see her reflection, but in its place stood Shaw.

“Hello there,” Root greeted, smiling and spinning around. But there was no one behind her.

“I’m here,” a voice called and she turned to see a version of Shaw exactly her height in a separate, concave cylindrical mirror.

“Didn’t know you cared about appearances, Sameen,” she said bemusedly, as the 4-cube continued to gyrate in the sunlight somewhere unseen above them, its rotations casting changing shapes infused with color, at her feet. It was like dancing to the pattern of an unusual disco ball, Root thought.

“I don’t,” the Shaw in the concave mirror disagreed, now standing upside down.

Root suppressed a laugh. “You should gotten some of the other type for the makeup counter,” she said, referring to ‘image bulging’ convex mirrors.

“That would have scared the customers away.”

“Please,” Shaw replied, from her inverted standpoint within the mirror, “they used too much product as it was.”

The edges of Root’s lips quirked upwards in a cheeky smile. “You know, I always wondered if clothes stores use flattering mirrors to increase sales.”

“Only you would think of something like that.”

“This is nice,” Root remarked suddenly, looking around her. “Being surrounded by images of you that talk, in the middle of nowhere.”

When she turned back, Shaw had vanished from the concave mirror, leaving Root to search for her. _Are you standing at the focal point, Sameen?_

“I’m not.” Shaw whipped a red flower out of her pocket and exited the plane mirror, stepping into reality. Both mirrors started to dematerialize and the hypercube began unfolding into lower dimensional nets, starting with cubes, and then squares.

“For me?” Root raised a hand to accept the flower, deeply flattered.

“No.” Shaw tossed it over the edge, and everything collapsed into particles of dust and inconsequential dots. _Mirror flower._

Root saw the reflection of something white and round shimmering below, where the flower had disappeared in an oasis of blue. _Water moon._

A tightrope spanning the empty air materialized as the floating platform began to disintegrate from the outside in. “Go,” Shaw commanded. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“You can go first,” Root insisted, not wanting her to disappear into virtual imagery or anything else.

Shaw shook her head, and somehow Root knew it was final. “Don’t look back,” she said softly, sending a shiver down Root’s spine. _I’m not Eurydice._

The wind blew as Root stepped onto the rope, but her feet maintained their position as if magically anchored. She spread her arms. “Promise me.”

“Do you what you’re good at.” Shaw’s voice carried across the endless gorge. _Code._

The tightrope shimmered and heaved suddenly, throwing Root into what seemed to be a rift in the fabric of reality; brilliant colors and incomprehensible shapes danced for a brief second before fading behind a black curtain.

Root rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and a view of an unfamiliar land unfolded, where passing auto rickshaws with black canvas tops kicked up dust in the distance. She held a container of Ceylon tea in her hands, the box—not quite a cube—an anchor to another place, its contents delectable.

_Maybe someday._


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written over a year ago flush with certain episodes of Season 4, in case the timing of the content seems ironic now. The story isn't complete, but these are the remaining chapters. A word of caution: some of you may prefer Chapters 1–7 for one reason or another.

“It’s not his fault, you know,” Shaw said to her, leaning against a black streetlamp.

“He doesn’t have to do the things I do,” Root replied, standing on the pavement with her arms crossed; the street was, interestingly, cobbled, in this area. “He couldn’t possibly understand.” _The things I’ve done; the way I feel._

“Finch followed you because he cares.” Shaw didn’t make eye contact. “They all do, more than you realize.”

“Harold couldn’t have helped,” Root said, not caring if she sounded sullen. “I lost him in the crowd.” _Am I lost, too?_

“It can’t be easy,” Shaw offered, almost kindly. “Puttin’ on a smile and pretending to be impressed by Mr. Nerd.”

“You weren’t made for the 9-to-5 thing; anybody can see that.” In the distance, a red light blinked once, and a camera swiveled ever so slightly, creating line of sight.

“I think if I was,” Root said, somewhat thoughtfully, “this would be a really sweet gig.”

“Getting recognized for doing cool things with technology. _Shannon_ would have liked it.” _If she were the real me._

“It’s not you,” Shaw responded, as if she had heard the unspoken thought, “if bullets don’t fly. And wearing masks is only fun for so long.”

Root was about to mention masquerade balls, but thought better of it.

“At least it’s not your typical, boring place,” Shaw continued. “You should have seen my ‘boss’ at the insurance company.”

Root stifled a chuckle. “I would have paid good money to see that, Shaw.”

“Really? You fancy death by pen?” Shaw twirled one with a sharp point between her fingers, expertly.

Root smiled briefly. “I don’t know if this is going to work,” she said of The Machine’s plan. “An app to recruit people against Samaritan…it’s not something I would have thought of.”

“Security related, right?” Shaw asked. “Maybe you’ll be surprised.”

“I hope so.” _It’s a long shot,_ remained unspoken between them. _At best._

“You’re good at playing roles, I’ll give you that,” Shaw said. “Bet they didn’t even see the psycho underneath—what were you supposed to be, some kind of nerdy computer person?”

Root felt a blush tingeing her cheeks slightly. “What can I say, Shaw, most people…show them what they want to see, and it’s a done deal.”

Shaw nodded absently. “She chose you for a reason, Root.”

“…What?”

“The Machine,” she said again, “chose you for a reason.”

Root bit her lip for what felt like a very long moment; Shaw’s eyes were obsidian in their opacity, somehow boring holes in her being, like remote lasers that didn’t need light.

“What…would that be?” She hated how her voice trembled, ever so slightly. _I always wanted to know…what set me apart._

“The obvious things,” Shaw said, ignoring Root’s clear interest, and unease, “you already know: good with a gun, able to withstand torture—that’s partly biological, by the way—smart, resourceful, willing to do anything”—she shook her head as if disagreeing with this part, although for whose sake Root was unsure—“nothing to lose, no one to leave behind.”

“Redemptive potential, sure, that would be attractive to any of Finch’s creations. But maybe the biggest reason…” Root held her breath as she trailed off, inextricably hooked on words she herself had spun many times as thoughts, unsure why it mattered so, coming from someone else.

“You represent Her.” Shaw shook her head again, more abruptly this time, at what Root knew was, for her, the obvious weirdness of giving an AI a living pronoun, let alone a gender.

“Having you do what She can’t in the physical world, it probably feels…natural.” Shaw looked like she had swallowed tar to say these things, and Root felt the beginnings of a genuine smile warm her face for the first time in ages.

_Thank you._

“I’m touched, Sameen,” she said, heart aflutter. “Truly.”

“Whatever.” Shaw’s response was convincing, but Root could tell she didn’t mean it. “I’m just thinkin’ about the innocent people you _won’t_ shoot when you’re bored.”

“One of these days you’ll admit you care about me for real,” Root said, undeterred. She arched an eyebrow invitingly.

A light swirl of flurries decorated the air. “Continue what you’re doing.” Shaw’s words neither confirmed nor denied the possibility. _Earn this._

Root heard what sounded like the leisurely galloping of a horse—the uneven surface of cobbled streets gave better toeholds under the right conditions—but when she attempted to localize the source, there was none.

Instead, the steady beat of a digital metronome clicked back and forth in ascending frequency, and Root raised her head from on top of crossed arms.

“Shannon,” someone called from the doorway, drawing her attention.

“Oh no.” Root put on her best idiotic smile and swiveled around, running a hand across her forehead for good measure. This time the act didn’t make her feel hollow inside. “I must have fallen—”

Phipps waved her off. “You can use the break room, if you like,” he said amenably. “It’s more comfortable, and I want you to feel—” He stopped, studying her.

“On second thought, you look…inspired already.”

_Keep it up._


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter I have written. Enjoy!

“Long day.” Shaw approached from directly in front of Root, walking along a suspension bridge which joined two ends of an indoor space that was almost completely white. “Difficult choices.”

“I’m satisfied with the outcome,” Root said, trying to keep the fatigue out of her voice. She was seated at a white table on one side of the bridge, under an impossibly high ceiling, the expansiveness of which made her feel small.

“But it cost you.” Shaw’s step was purposeful but unhurried, and Root found herself relaxing. “That has to hurt.” _Especially when it was the right thing to do._

“By whose standard?” Root found herself asking, as Shaw sat down. _Certainly not Hers._

“Yours.” That single word gave everything clarity.

“I went against Her today.” _Litmus test, Shaw._

“…If this is who you are without The Machine, I like it.”

Root pondered this response, and its implications. “I was going to kill her. Is that something you would have done?”

“I’d have been more physical: mugged her in a back alley, complete with a nice beating. That kinda thing.”

“You’re avoiding the question.” Remnants of desperation gave her fortitude.

 _If direct is how you want to play it._ “Killing her would have burned a hole in your heart.”

“You knew that, and you would have done it anyway.”

They stared at each other in saturated silence.

“Does that make it right, to you?”

“You weren’t doing it for yourself,” Shaw said, after a pause. “I think it was the last thing you wanted.”

“But I was,” Root disagreed. “The reality is even if the device would have guaranteed us victory, I wouldn’t have allowed Harry to do it.”

“I know.” There was searing comprehension in Shaw’s eyes.

“I tell myself we’ll find another way, but”—she brushed a lock of hair absently—“I couldn’t let it happen.” _Is sacrifice any different than murder?_

“I know,” Shaw repeated.

“Why don’t you tell me I’m weak, or foolish, for letting my emotions get in the way?” Root asked cuttingly, depth of feeling spilling over.

“If anyone,” Shaw said, and there was steel in her tone Root couldn’t quite comprehend, “has allowed their feelings to ‘get in the way’, it’s Finch.”

She was surprised by this. “How do you figure?”

“Man thinks now’s a good time to start a relationship?” Shaw asked incredulously. “When he’s playin’ her to bring down the evil all-seeing AI she happens to work for?”

“It was a good plan,” she said on Harold’s behalf, shuffling her fingers slightly.

“Maybe,” Shaw replied. “But for a man so logical, he sure lets his heart run wild.” This amused Root a little.

“You’ll find another way.”

Root nodded distractedly. “Harold…is drawn to people he can take care of,” she said slowly. _Like birds he can wrap in a cocoon._

“It’s always made you jealous,” Shaw remarked, drawing out the syllables, “that he will never care that much about you.”

_She told me about his father, trucks and forgetting…but I didn’t realize until now that the experience made him…and Her._

“A part of me doesn’t want anyone like that in his life,” she confessed. “So I’ll always have a place.”

“You tipped your hand, when you kidnapped him,” Shaw told her. “But I don’t think he realized how much you…adore him.”

“Some people would consider that betrayal,” Root stated, tapping her painted nails on the high-gloss table surface, unintentionally shining black in Shaw’s eyes.

“Please,” Shaw said derisively. “I’m not ‘some people’.” _It would never work between us, if I was._

“The man who created your world…”

“…and the woman who stole my heart,” Root finished, looking right into her eyes.

“Are equal.”

A fragment of something resembling paper began to drift down from the ceiling.

_Does that make you mad?_

“I’ve been trying to tell you, Root.” Shaw said, her visage the portrait of neutrality. “So you wouldn’t forget him, for me.”

“I wanted you to make a choice you wouldn’t regret.”

Warmth swelled in Root’s chest. “I never thought,” she said, “that I would find either of you.”

“Now that I have, I can’t lose you.”

“You realize the position this puts you in.” Shaw brought her hands together in front of her.

“I do.”

“Finch has you and Reese to take a bullet for him.” Her look took in everything about Root, like an airport body scanner in its quest for metal detection. “You have no one.”

“And when you do the right thing, even if it tears you apart, no one will know.”

“That’s why you have to come back,” Root implored, placing both hands flat on the table, palms down.

_You were the only one to come for me._

“I’ve seen you get shot too many times to buy any ‘smart and invincible’ act,” Shaw said, the fingers of one hand curling slowly into a partial fist Root didn’t think she had even noticed.

“You look out for me the way I look out for Harold,” she said, as the pieces clicked into place.

“That day in the nuclear facility,” Shaw said. “I thought Finch was crazy, letting someone so clearly a danger to him live.”

A few strands of Root’s hair strayed to the side, even though there was no wind.

“But the way things stand, you have more to lose.”

She smiled sadly. “I really hope you turn up alive, Shaw. No one else says these things to me.”

“You keep believing, maybe it’ll happen.”

“You’re…different today,” Root observed. “Being nice to me and all.”

“Newsflash,” her companion said sarcastically. “You’re weird, you dream weird.”

“Fair enough,” Root acknowledged. “Said some things I normally wouldn’t have, today.”

“So take this as a reward.” _Because I was willing to kill for Harold? Or because I didn’t?_

“Sometimes I’m afraid…you aren’t Shaw at all,” Root said softly. She glanced around them, noticing the lone exit beyond the bridge. “And this is all just some elaborate delusion to keep me sane.”

“I’m what you need me to be,” Shaw answered her. “Don’t question what works.”

“I have imagined you,” Root revealed, “without the Axis II personality disorder.”

She paused, and when Shaw didn’t produce a dagger or any other sharp implement, continued, “It goes something like this actually.”

“Oh?”

“Not that I agree with the diagnosis, by the way.”

“Really.” Shaw cocked a brow. “Confident.”

“I came this close to losing my last friend in the world today,” Root told her. “Somehow now doesn’t feel like the time to play it safe.”

“Wanna see how far that goes?”

Root batted her eyelids. “Is that an invitation?”

“Only to this,” Shaw said, as the fragment from earlier completed its downward journey, edges spinning as it filled the space between them, and eventually fused into the tabletop. As she looked down, Root saw it was a chessboard. Proximity seemed to exert a pull, and her eyes were drawn into the alternating pattern until she was falling through the air.

* * *

 

“Do you still think I represent Her?” Root asked, as she fell through the air with Shaw, genuine curiosity mingling with need for reassurance.

“You told me The Machine’s not a robot.” Root nodded in response to this.

“Then you know,” Shaw continued, “that machine learning is real-world modeling as much as programming.”

“Are you saying…what I do shapes who She becomes?”

“We could have stopped Samaritan from coming online,” Shaw reminded her, “with a little bloodshed.”

“But…what would The Machine have become?”

“I’ve thought about that,” Root admitted. “The congressman’s death would have saved a lot of lives.” _Including yours._

Shaw waited for her to finish the thought. “At the time, I would have done it, easily even…but that’s not who I am anymore.”

Approval seemed to sparkle in those dark eyes. “That’s why The Machine didn’t send you that day.”

“She was asking for permission,” Root realized, “from Her creator.”

Shaw nodded. “I’m not saying I like Samaritan,” she said, “but if warm ’n’ fuzzy is the way we like our AIs…”

 _The real you…would have once said different, wouldn’t she._ “If The Machine had really learned that lesson,” Root demanded, “why—why did She beg me not to stop Harold?”

“Why did She send him that woman’s number when She _knew_ it would seal his fate?”

Shaw shrugged casually, her regular body language at odds with the unusual gravitas of her words. “Desperate times,” she said. “Machine wouldn’t have considered this if it had a choice.”

“I know that, but—”

“And learning,” Shaw cut across her, “needs to be reinforced.” _By many people._

“Do you still think it doesn’t matter, what you did today? Do you really think Finch is the only one who can teach Her?”

_I hardly think I’m fit to teach anything._

“Everyone lived,” Shaw declared, with characteristic certainty. “That’s a win in my book.”

_By standing in the way of a brilliant plan, and…failing as an assassin, could I really have succeeded?_

“I was sure,” Root said finally, “that She loved us—that it was our lives She would put first—not Her own—especially when it came to Harold.”

“Now I don’t know.” _…Everything gets tested when it’s down to the wire._

“So don’t follow blindly,” Shaw told her, as they both landed on the chessboard. “Listen to The Machine’s instructions, but make your own decision about whether to follow them.”

“I don’t know…if I’m the right person for this.” Root stumbled before regaining her balance. “You know who I was befo—”

“You’re the only person,” Shaw interrupted harshly, her balance perfect. “Look where you’re standing.”

Root looked down, and took note of where she was. _The square of her color, fourth from the left._ “I’m…the queen,” she said, unsure what to make of the fact.

“So play your role,” Shaw said firmly, before other pieces arrived and lines were drawn. “You decide how the game goes.”

“Shaw…”

“You’re stronger than you seem,” the other woman added reluctantly.

“And braver than I believe?” Root teased, wanting to hear the end of the stanza.

Shaw ignored her. “You haven’t chosen an easy path,” she warned Root. “How many games end without the queen’s capture or sacrifice? Even victories.”

“I knew it wasn’t going to be easy; I’m okay with that.”

“A queen who was once a pawn,” Shaw went on, “knows the game without pretense.”

“You fight without promise of reward.” _That is your strength._

“Which piece are you?” Root asked her.

“I am,” Shaw intoned meaningfully, walking toward the other end of the life-sized board, “your opponent.” Root closed her eyes. “Don’t hold back.”

* * *

 

When she opened them, she was standing in a long corridor not unlike the one in the basement of the stock exchange.

“They’re coming, Ms. Groves,” Harold called over her shoulder, and Root found a loaded pistol in each hand.

“Take cover,” she ordered, but Harold just stood there in the open. Root shoved him against a wall and whirled, firing in both directions as ascending and descending tones dictated.

She was in her element, until a familiar black ponytail became visible in the periphery; Root pointed her gun but did not shoot, knowing who it was.

The other person didn’t have any such compunctions, however, and Root dove in time with the muzzle flash, knocking Harold off his feet and to the floor.

“Root,” he advised from beside her on the ground, “at least point your gun at her.”

“I can’t, Harry,” she said, ignoring the pain and rising to her knees in front of him. _Even for you._

Shaw advanced with her gun held out, and suddenly Root regretted not having the option to use close combat techniques, when the muzzle was pressed against her head, execution-style.

As her field of vision narrowed to the gun, and the hand holding it, Root wished there was something she could say to change the outcome; not for her, but for Shaw.

Shaw’s finger began closing on the trigger as if in slow motion, and Root’s eyes wandered upward to a face that would always be…dear. _It’s okay, if it’s you._

A deafening bang rang out…

* * *

 

…and Root found herself staring at a pair of dark orbs.

They were back on the chessboard, now surrounded by snow under a wintry sky, and Shaw was in front of her, together with several black pieces. “Your move,” she said, as Root’s arm dripped blood onto an adjacent white square.

Root surveyed her options: every possible move was prevented by one of the surrounding pieces, except…

“Only way out is through me,” Shaw said, staring her down.

“Then I’ll just stay here.”

“…and bleed out?” Shaw inquired disdainfully, glancing down at her arm.

“It’s better than the alternative,” Root insisted, shivering slightly.

“Okay.” Shaw drew her gun and pointed it at the white king. “See how you like this.”

“That’s not a legal move,” Root said, keeping her voice even.

“Who said I play by the rules?”

“Fine.” Root took a single step forward, blocking Shaw’s line of sight. “Take me.”

“Being held prisoner by the enemy is no fun,” Shaw warned her, before stowing the gun and spinning Root roughly around, and frog marching her toward the black end of the board.

Root winced at the pressure but didn’t complain. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

They trudged through the snow against a mild headwind that carried flurries into Root’s face, passing bare trees every now and again, on a route that Shaw seemed to know like the back of her hand; the only evidence anyone had been here, Root thought, were the red bloodstains she was trailing along the path, a stark contrast to the pure white of everything else. _It shines white, until I stain it red._

“You could have shot me,” Shaw said, and Root could hear the implied ‘should’ in the sentence.

“No,” she said, “I couldn’t have.”

“Shoot first, ask questions later.” Shaw tugged her away from the frozen lake on their right and in the direction of higher ground. “No one’s askin’ you to kill.”

Root panted slightly from the exertion. “You saved my life,” she said. “Shooting you is the last thing I would do.”

“Someday,” Shaw warned, “that reluctance is gonna cost you.”

“I trust you.” _You would never hurt us._

“…But you don’t know what I’ve been through,” Shaw said, chilling Root to the bone.

“Don’t gamble everything on what once was.”

“I have to hold on,” Root asserted, “to the few remaining things I’m sure of.”

They came to a wide clearing with several twigs sticking out of the snow. Shaw half-marched, half-dragged her across it toward a long metal container at the far end.

“You left your side without a general,” she accused, jerking her head in the direction they had come from. “What chance d’you think they have of winning now?”

“They’ll just promote another pawn,” Root presumed, without stopping to consider if she really meant it.

“It’s not,” Shaw said, turning her around and slamming her into the door of the structure, “that simple.” _You matter._

Root winced as two metal bars dug into her back. “We’ll find out soon enough, won’t we.”

Shaw pulled her away from the door with one hand and threw both open with the other. “Get in.”

“Is this my prison?” Root tried to make light of the situation, but tripped on the entrance step and fell backward, the impact only slightly softened by a layer of hard packed snow on the ground.

As she caught her breath, the doors began to close. “Shaw—” Root yelled, but the sound of the locking mechanism was final.

* * *

 

Root shivered as loneliness descended. Somehow she knew Shaw wasn’t coming back. Her arm was mostly numb, which wasn’t a good sign, and a brief inspection of the interior revealed nothing that could be used to escape. Root got carefully to her feet and inspected the walls—solid—and the door—locked from the outside, as she had thought. She thought about screaming, but there wasn’t another living soul for miles.

Root leaned against the back wall and when that became tiring, slowly slid down until her legs were outstretched. Just as she felt her eyelids begin to droop, a familiar voice called:

“Getting comfortable, Ms. Groves?”

Root blinked twice to be sure of what she was seeing. “Harry?”

There, in front of the locked door, stood Harold Finch. “If you stay here, you’ll die.”

“There didn’t seem to be much choice,” she said. “Shaw locked me in.”

“Indeed.” Harold adjusted his glasses. “I wonder what made her do that.”

“We were playing a game of chess,” Root informed him, wiggling the fingers of one hand in her pocket, to restore feeling. “It’s a long story.”

“I see,” Harold said. Then, after a beat, “Root, Ms. Shaw…wasn’t your fault either.”

“I asked her to come that day,” she said, in an echo of prior words.

Harold shook his head. “She would have come anyway,” he told her, removing his hands from his pockets and undoing the scarf around his neck.

Root swallowed. “I thought you didn’t want to see me,” she said, looking down, and noticing that the snow had thawed slightly underneath her blood and body warmth.

“Out there, maybe,” Harold replied, coming to stand beside her. “But in here”—he bent to tie the scarf around her wound—“there are things you need to hear.”

Root looked at him with wide eyes. “You risked your friendship with me,” he said, watching her features relax, “—which I know means a lot to you—to save my life.”

“I would do it again.”

“I didn’t,” he said, folding his hands in his lap, “thank you for that.”

“This, or any of the other times.”

“You don’t have to.” Root smiled, despite the cold and the pain. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Harold looked mildly uncomfortable at this. “I may have created The Machine, Ms. Groves, but…”

“You gave me the world I always wanted,” Root said sincerely. “I can never repay for you for that.”

Harold nodded jerkily, not so much in agreement, but in wanting to move beyond her gratitude, it seemed. “…that doesn’t mean my life is worth yours.”

Perhaps sensing she was about to disagree, he continued, “Your worth to The Machine is far greater than mine.”

“I don’t see things that way,” Root replied honestly.

“Then try to remember,” he impressed upon her, “that without you we don’t stand much of a chance at all.” _I don’t want you taking a bullet for me._

Root bit her lip, as Harold helped her to her feet. “Unless you have a way out of here, Harry…this is all a moot point.”

Harold brought her halfway to the entrance and Root leaned against the side wall, while he went to stand in front of the locked doors keeping them in.

“Root,” Harold said softly, with his back to her, “I didn’t want you to kill Beth, not just for her, and me—but for you.”

“You’ve come too far,” he went on, examining the surface, and Root was glad he couldn’t see her face, “to return to killing.”

“Harry…”

“You said this was locked?” he asked, changing the topic abruptly.

“It is.”

Harold pushed one of the doors slightly and a ray of light shone through. “Perhaps it was,” he suggested, turning to face her deliberately, “until you were ready to leave.” He gestured at the opening. _Perhaps Ms. Shaw knew you wanted to speak to me._

Root pushed herself off the wall with some effort. “Thank you, Harold.” She went to the other door and pushed it open with her good arm.

“We are still friends, Ms. Groves,” he said as she stepped past him and out of the container.

Root didn’t let him see how much those words meant to her. “Are you coming?” she asked, turning back.

Harold shook his head. “Live.” _You are…_

Root frowned as her gaze zoomed in on his glasses, and rectangles morphed into equal black circles belonging to a speedometer and a tachometer on a car dashboard. Her head rested on the steering wheel and one of her arms was awkwardly positioned, nerve compression resulting in numbness. The interior of the car was frigid, and Root remembered not wanting to hot-wire a ‘borrowed’ vehicle, for risk of detection.

_…loved more than you know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trust me when I say this wasn't meant to be prophetic, when I wrote it last year.
> 
> But the depth of Root's caring for Harold had been apparent to me throughout the season, culminating in 4x18. In a way you could say Root's way of loving is different than most, and her concern for, and connection to, Harold is no less strong than her love for Shaw, just in a different sense—the two of them make her world. And it was always about how much she cared for herself as a person, as opposed to a transcendent concept or existence, that really hung in the balance.
> 
> In a sense, then, once those character qualities—her and Reese—were set, it was a matter of how those paths would play out. Not inevitable, but one possibility, given the variables. And increasingly, as the Machine took shape, it began to take on some of Root's characteristics, almost seeing her as an avatar—who it would be, if it were human.
> 
> And in If-Then-Else (4x11), just as the most obvious features were shown and resolved, between her and Shaw, another was just beginning: the notion of Root as queen—in chess—and sacrifice, as foreshadowing.
> 
> For Root, also, it was never physical pain that fazed her, but emotional intensity and sensitivity. And, seeing the regard that Harold had for her as well as the feelings Shaw reciprocated, somehow I think those are the most human things she could have wanted. It would have been deeply satisfying.
> 
> All in all a very interesting dynamic. Fascinating, even. Wouldn't you say?


End file.
